The Memory Artists

  He stopped when he saw someone official-looking, wearing glasses on a silver chain and giant clip-on earrings, sitting on the chair across from his mother. She had a clipboard on her lap and a body that flirted with immenseness. Oh no, not another salesperson. How the hell did she get in?

  The woman introduced herself, her voice infecting Noel’s brain with bending otter-brown rectangles, which opened and closed like an accordion. Instead of returning her greeting, he turned on the stereo, slipped a silver disc into a tray: Scriabin’s Poem of Ecstasy. He then walked to the kitchen, set the food and flowers on the counter, opened the fridge and took out a jalapeño pepper.

  “I’m sorry,” he said when he returned. “I was a bit distracted, Miss …”

  “Mrs. Holtzberger. From Home Care.”

  Weathering a tear-gas attack of perfume, Noel introduced himself. “I’m Noel, Mrs. Burun’s son.” He took a large bite out of the pepper, halving it, before shaking her hand. “How did you get in, Mrs. Holtzberger, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Well, I … your mother opened the door.”

  “Right.”

  The woman eyed the remains of the vegetable. “I’ve come to interview your mother to see if she qualifies.”

  “Qualifies?”

  “For assistance. For a day nurse. Two or three days a week to help your mom.”

  “Right.” It was he himself who had filled out the application, six months before. To replace a nurse they couldn’t afford.

  “I’m also here to check up on various reports that have been forwarded to our department—”

  Noel tried to fight through the sound of Mrs. Holtzberger’s rectangles, as well as the image of her snow-and-rose complexion and stop-sign-red lipstick that went well beyond the boundaries of her mouth. What was she saying? Complaints from the neighbours? They’re chronic complainers. Yes, I know she’s been wandering but that’s all in the past. Yes, she has one now, she has a Medic Alert bracelet … I know she’s not wearing it now. We’ll find it, it’s here somewhere. The house is a mess? A bit of an exaggeration, that. But she doesn’t want to live anywhere else. She wants to live at home, with me. Plus she’s getting better, she really is. Yes, I understand perfectly …

  “So if you don’t mind I’ll just begin the MMSE?”

  Noel stooped to turn off Scriabin’s muted trombones. “She’s had several examinations already, Mrs. Holtzberger. In fact, her doctor is a world-famous neurologist. Émile Vorta—you may have heard of him.”

  “It won’t take long. Nothing to worry about. Is that all right, Mrs. Burun? And may I call you Stella?”

  Mrs. Burun’s lips were pursed tightly, as if she were on the brink of helpless laughter. She was recalling that time in Spain—was it Spain?—when Noel had tricked her into laughing for a photograph by doing a demented ballet leap. What’s it called? When you cross your legs back and forth …

  “Perhaps you’d like to leave us for a few minutes, Mr. Burun?”

  “No, I’ll … stay if you don’t mind.” Noel walked toward the front window.

  “Very well. Mrs. Burun, my first question is this: What is the year? Mrs. Burun? Can you tell me what year it is?”

  Was it Spain or … that other country? Mrs. Burun saw dark weathered bricks in a zigzag pattern, and long arcades. Turin? “Entrechat,” she murmured, smiling.

  “I’m sorry? Mrs. Burun? Can you tell me what year it is?”

  Mrs. Burun gazed straight ahead. Who is this woman? She appears to be waiting for me to say something …

  “The year, Stella. Do you know what year it is?”

  “The year? Oh, dear me. I would say … nineteen … we’re in the nineties but I …”

  Mrs. Holtzberger wrote something down with a stubby pencil. “And what is the season?”

  “Fall?”

  Looking out the window, Noel sighed deeply. Through the frosted pane, black trees against the banking clouds swam before his eyes.

  “What is the month?”

  “October?”

  “And the date?”

  “Sunday?”

  “Where are we? What country?”

  “I don’t … Canada?”

  “What city?”

  “Aberdeen?”

  “What she means is that she was born in Aberdeen,” said Noel. “The question was confusing.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Burun, for the … supplementary information. But I’m afraid this test is for your mother only. Now, Mrs. Burun, what is the name of your street? Mrs. Burun?”

  “Coppertree Lane?”

  “I think she means that we used to live there,” said Noel. “In Babylon, Long Island. Where Rodney Dangerfield was—”

  “And what room of the house are we in now, Mrs. Burun?”

  “The dining room?”

  Noel put his hands on the window sill, for support. He looked up at the dark winter sky and a freezing wind swept through him. She’s taking all the latest prescription drugs, he thought. State-of-the-goddamn-art. Why aren’t they working? Why is nothing working?

  “I’m now going to give you three words to remember. And then I want you to repeat them to me. All right? Are you ready? Here are the three words: cucumber, lamp, nickel. Can you repeat those to me, Mrs. Burun? Cucumber, lamp, nickel.”

  Stella screwed up her face in concentration. “Cucumber, lamp … I forget the rest. I’m terribly sorry. I’m not myself today, you see …”

  “That’s all right, dear, you’re doing fine. I now have a rather tricky task for you. I want you to start from one hundred and count backwards, subtracting seven each time.”

  A long silence unspun as the kitchen faucet dripped with a dead beat, like a clock marking off time, like a drum beating a dirge. Images of Europe returned. A funeral in … that city full of water. With blackly ribboned boats, or whatever they’re called, and someone beating a drum. She had thought of her husband as the sound grew louder, as the coffin floated by …

  “Mrs. Burun?”

  “Mrs. Holtzberger,” said Noel. “I can’t even bloody well count backwards by multiples of seven—”

  “Mrs. Burun? Can you count backwards from one hundred, subtracting seven each time? No? OK, we’ll move on. Can you spell the word radar backwards? No? Can you recall the three words I asked you to remember earlier on?” Mrs. Holtzberger glanced at a watch that was embedded in the flesh of her wrist. “No? Do you enjoy life, Mrs. Burun?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “How do you feel about life?”

  “I can’t say that I feel anything at all.” She wore a look of infinite sadness, resignation.

  “She’s not been well the past couple of days,” said Noel. “Really. She’s got … the flu. A virulent avian strain. For that reason I’m going to have to ask you to come back and do this test another—”

  “Mr. Burun, a repeat may be requested if the subject is overly anxious or upset but according to my guidelines—”

  “We appreciate you coming, Mrs. Holtzberger. But I’m afraid my mother needs to rest right now …”

  “Then I’ll just have to submit these incomplete test results,” she said animatedly, rolls of flesh shifting and wobbling on her neck. “Which may adversely affect your request for day help. And there’s another matter to be discussed. In private, if you don’t mind?”

  “I’ve no secrets from my mother.”

  “Very well. I have received reports, more than one, that your mother has been wandering around the neighbourhood, knocking on windows.”

  “I … know of no such incidents.”

  “Are you aware of an incident involving your mother’s cat?”

  “Which … incident are you referring to?”

  “Before you arrived, your mother explained that your neighbour killed her cat, maliciously.”

  “He killed Morven,” said Stella.

  Morven died of a tumour in 1991, Noel recalled. “That’s … correct,” he said.

  “She also claimed your neighb
our drowned Morven’s kittens in his hot tub.”

  Noel sighed. “Alas.”

  “And that he then suffocated the mother by locking it inside a suitcase.”

  “I can show you the case,” said Noel. “With teeth and claw marks. I can get it if you like.”

  Mrs. Holtzberger rolled her eyes. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Burun. But you will be hearing from us very soon. No, I’ll see myself out.”

  A bad day, Noel said to himself as he put his mother to bed. Big deal, nothing to it—we all have bad days. Things will be better tomorrow …

  Mrs. Burun blinked rapidly to quell tears, sensing she’d done something wrong, sensing she’d let her son down. “What’s wrong with me, Noel dear? I feel like something’s wrong but I don’t know what it is.”

  He had heard this before, many times, yet he could barely stop himself from collapsing into tears. It was simply heartbreaking. “Don’t worry, Mom.” He smiled bravely. “Tomorrow’s another day. We’re in the twenty-first century—things are bound to get better. We’ll have a riot tomorrow, you wait and see. Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  Mrs. Burun stopped crying, distracted by these words like a small child. In the cheval glass beside the bed Noel could see her reflection. He crossed the room and brought back a bouquet of flowers.

  “Look what I got for you, Mom. Amaranth.”

  His mother’s eyes sparkled as she smelled the flowers and caressed their petals.

  “Remember when you read me ‘The Rose and the Amaranth’? From Aesop? The undying flower? No? Doesn’t matter. It was eons ago.” Into a juice glass he poured out a frog-green liquid from an unlabelled amber bottle. “Take a bit more of this, Mom. It should help.” And hopefully without side-effects. “I’ve got some new ideas, new tricks up my sleeve, you wait and see.” He watched his mother drink. “Oh, I almost forgot, something unbelievable happened. You’ll never guess who I met. Are you ready? Heliodora Locke. In Montreal of all places!”

  His mother gazed at him vacantly.

  “Heliodora Locke!” he shouted, unnecessarily, as if sheer volume would jog her memory. “You know, The Bride and Three Bridegrooms! You remember, Mom …”

  Mrs. Burun had a look of fear on her face as her son encouraged her with broad facial expressions and charade-like gestures. “Remember? We loved that movie. It’s one of our favourites. Heliodora Locke, the girl with kaleidoscope eyes. Remember you used to tease me about being in love with … never mind.” Noel smiled, tried to hide his frustration. “That’s OK, Mom. Don’t worry about it. It’s not important. Couldn’t be less important, in fact …”

  His mother’s expression gradually changed. “She found three men on the seashore. Shipwrecked. They were all unconscious.”

  Noel’s features froze, his breathing stopped.

  “She nursed them back to health, and they all fell in love with her.”

  Noel stared at his mother, incredulously. And then launched himself into her arms, laughing, rocking back and forth on the bed. “Yes, Mom, that’s right. I knew you’d remember! This is good news, very good news.” Vorta’s drugs are kicking in, he said to himself. I knew this would be the right batch!

  His mother began to stroke his hair, as she used to. And then out of the blue she said, “Your father … had a passion for family trees. But what you didn’t know, what I never told you, was that he was easily taken in. Despite his … brilliance.”

  Noel tried to stop his heart from pounding, shocked at this new lucidity. “You mean … Byron’s really not my ancestor?”

  His mother merely smiled. “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world, your father used to say.”

  Why did she remember that line? Noel wondered. Because of the amaranth?11 His brain began to generate rows of coloured letters but with effort he shut the generator down. “I … I never heard him say that, Mom.”

  “Your father was unhappy with the acknowledged legislators.”

  Noel desperately wanted to hear more—she had never talked of his father’s unhappiness in this way—but his mother’s mind leapt abruptly to another subject. “I’ve got some stuff for Émile,” she said. “Can you take it to him, dear? You can read it if you like.”

  Before he could reply, in the blink of an eye she fell asleep. For a moment he thought of waking her, of extending these precious moments, but he didn’t have the heart. She’d suffered from insomnia for weeks. So he ever so gently lifted her fingers from his hair, and kissed her on the forehead. On tiptoes he then crept towards her blue Olivetti Lettera (a gift from her husband that a computer would never replace) and picked up a sheaf of papers beside a well-thumbed thesaurus. There was a half-finished page still in the typewriter, barely readable. Must change the ribbon, he thought. Taking one last peek at his mother, Noel switched off the light, closed the door. In the hall, after selecting a key from a ring, he locked the door from the outside—his mother’s jailer!—as emotions rose to fill his throat and flood his eyes.

  A sound from below distracted him. Someone was ringing the doorbell, piercingly and long, while pounding maniacally on the door. A picture quivered on the foyer wall. The cacophony of clangs and bangs continued for several minutes before a dead silence redescended on the house. At the top of the stairs he sat down and began to read his mother’s pages.

  Chapter 6

  Stella’s Diary (I)

  Like one, that on a lonesome road

  Doth walk in fear and dread,

  And having once turned round walks on

  And turns no more his head;

  Because he knows a frightful fiend

  Doth close behind him tread.

  — Coleridge, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”

  Friday, 9 February 2001. A huge day, in the hugely negative sense. According to the doctor I have ‘mild cognitive impairment’. That doesn’t sound too bad at first, but let me put it another way: I’m in the first stage of ... Alzheimer’s Disease. The very names of certain diseases bring dread and AD is one of them. It’s a death sentence. A long and slow one.

  Émile asked me to keep this journal while I still have ‘self-insight’ -i.e. the ability to recognise what’s happening to me. Later on, because of the deterioration in the cells in my temporal lobe, where insights are formed apparently, I won’t be able to do this. ‘Don’t forget to keep it every day,’ he told me.

  Fine, I still have insight, but that’s more a curse than a blessing. Because I know the future and the future is this:

  I can’t remember the term for it, which is why I drew it (I used to draw better).

  Or if it’s not like being under the sword, it’s like the Ancient Mariner, but I can’t remember why. And I don’t want to bother poor Noel again. I used to draw better than this.

  The sword of Damocles! (I just asked Noel.)

  Thank God for Noel. And yet even with Noel here, life can be so terribly lonely. I don’t see my old colleagues any more. Or my friends. Because keeping up my end of the conversation can be a real battle sometimes. Too often I can’t remember the last thing said. I can remember rocking Noel in his crib thirty-two years ago, I can remember my husband proposing to me thirty-five years ago, but often I can’t remember what was said thirty-five seconds ago.

  I seem forever on the verge of remembrance, like trying to recall a dream, when you get the faintest of glimpses before the whole thing evaporates.

  And it’s so frustrating when I explain what’s wrong with me. No one really understands. My lapses, I mean. My friends say things like ‘We all forget things, Stella. We all lose our train of thought. It’s normal in this age of PIN numbers and passwords. There’s really nothing wrong with you.’ And I just nod, instead of saying ‘No no, that’s not it, that’s not it at all. It’s more than that, you see.’

  Émile says I have ‘mild cognitive impairment’. In conversations, just when you think of something relevant or clever or amusing to say, you forget some pertinent detail. And you lose yo
ur confidence. Or you’re afraid you’ve asked the same question and they’re tired of repeating themselves. And often you repeat something not because you’ve forgotten it, but because you can’t remember whether you said it or merely thought it.

  Sometimes you just want to find a place to hide, a place to cry. What does an elephant do when its time has come? It walks alone into the jungle. Sometimes that’s what I feel like doing, assuming I could ever find a jungle.

  Mild cognitive impairment, which is what I have, is the first sign of Alzheimer’s. I’m in a no-woman’s land, in a strange place where I’m no longer the self-assured and knowledgeable person I once was. A history teacher, for God’s sake!

  But I’m not mad yet either -- I can still think, I can still reason. What annoys me is the way Émile is starting to bypass me, giving all the details about my case, and all the eye contact, to my son. It’s infuriating. I’m going to say something to him next time. If I remember. I’d better write it on my hand.

  13 February 2001. Fugaces labuntur anni.12 How in heaven did I remember that, from my distant schooldays? I want to go back so badly, back to Aberdeen. I remember things that happened to me there better than things that happened here two weeks ago! Will Noel go with me, I wonder?

  God, how I miss the things I used to have, the little things we take for granted. To be able to make small talk, to joke, to remember people’s names, to read a book or watch a movie without getting lost. To walk or drive without getting lost!

  I can’t find my car keys, which has happened lots of times before, of course, but this time it feels different. This time I don’t think it’s a case of misplacing them, of not remembering where I left them. This time I have a feeling they’ve been stolen.

  If Noel took them away, I must have really got lost, really gone far astray ... The mother who used to wonder where her son was now has a son who wonders where his mother is.

  15 February. I wake up and my brain doesn’t seem to be wired right. I feel like looking in the Yellow Pages for a good electrician, one who knows what he’s doing, who won’t throw up his hands at the mess. ‘I can rewire it if you like, Mrs. Burun,’ he’d probably say, ‘or you can just wait for the fire.’ And then I start to panic, and get more muddled, and then pull the covers back over me and go back to sleep.